


We Are the Champions

by pir8fancier



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 23:59:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pir8fancier/pseuds/pir8fancier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another chapter in the wank Olympics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are the Champions

**Author's Note:**

> For the two fangirls at Ascendio who asked me to write another chapter in Champions. Sorry, I can't remember your names, but this chapter is for you both.

He hated life; hated, hated, hated life. The gleeful sense of victory that had eluded him for years? Finally, he could taste it. What he'd plotted, maneuvered, lied, schemed, and got down on his knees and prayed to the God Godiva was at hand. And it didn't matter. Could anything be more fucked up?

Given that the Wank Olympics had failed in the most fabulous way possible, his normally astounding confidence was a wee bit shaken. Not only had the Slytherins lost, but he'd been forced to (a) watch Weasley jack off; (b) had nearly humiliated himself in front of his entire class (what a blessing that Pansy hadn't been there because she would have sussed out what was going on in a bat-shit minute and she _never_ would have let him live it down); (c) that annoying, irritating, stupid, bumbling magical incompetent Longbottom whipped out a dick as big as Portugal; and (d), the worst thing of all, he'd jacked off Potter and Potter had jacked off _him_ , and now his dick was making demands. Of course, it always made demands. Normally Draco was quite happy to satisfy them. But now he was actually having conversations with his dick, and the majority of them were pushing for sex with that color-challenged tosser, whose idea of a robe was something five sizes too small with choo-choo trains all over it. 

So yes, life had gone utterly pear-shaped, and it was all Potter's fault.

As brilliant as he thought M.A.P. was, it had surpassed even _his_ expectations. And since he always had ridiculously high expectations, which meant he was always royally disappointed, the success of M.A.P. should have had him at the head of a conga-line, snaking their way through the Great Hall, with everyone behind him chanting, "Dra-Co! Dra-Co!" as they shimmied and shaked their way through the halls of Hogwarts. What an image! How delicious! Twenty-one days ago that very _thought_ would have had him hard and weeping. As it was, his dick only gave a sad little jerk, as if to say, "So?"

The first week was a beta of sorts. Naturally, in Potions it got quite a work out, but he was able to throw out a few 2's, 3's, and a goodly number of 8's in his every day interactions with Potter. Not surprisingly, Pansy and Blaise caught on immediately, even without him defining any of the specific terms, which pretty much certified his genius as far as he was concerned. Of course, it had to be modified somewhat regarding names and a few wee other issues--not something he had originally anticipated--but who was he to stand in the way of the juggernaut of genius? He snarled at the Weasel no fewer than six times a week, "Two, Weasel," and by the end of week two, the entire school population was speaking in M.A.P.

With the help of Pansy and Blaise, he put together a M.A.P. lexicon and circulated it around the school. By the end of week three, not only were there over one hundred phrases coined to numbers, people began to add to it. Draco could be generous. If people wanted to capitalize on his brilliance, why not? It got so that entire conversations were conducted in numbers. He thought he'd reached the pinnacle when he heard Granger say to Weasel, "Absolutely not, Ronald. You can just 15 and for good measure, why not 24 yourself." But no, it got even better. He was just about to turn the corner to where the Great Hall was located when he heard Dumbledore say to McGonagall, "That Hornswangle. After our last Firecall I said to him, ‘Three, Hornswangle.' Fortunately, he thought I said, ‘Tea.' Now I have to waste a good hour on Thursday sipping inferior tea with that man." Really, it couldn't possibly get any better.

And none of it mattered.

Because there was one lone holdout, one person who refused to use M.A.P., who refused to respond to anything said in M.A.P., and who after week one had told Draco that if he uttered another phrase in M.A.P. in his presence that Potter would use a Charm that would render him impotent for the next month.

Normally, Draco would have been outraged, first, because if anyone were issuing threats it should have been him, and, second, because erections are one of those pesky little things that are often most inconvenient, but you really missed them when they were gone. Cause for alarm, really. Sadly, to be impotent around Potter would have been a blessing, because he was anything BUT limp-ish around Potter. The exact opposite, in fact. Every Potions class, for two agonizing hours, he battled raging, horrible, straining-against-his trousers boners that leaked all over his shorts. Nothing but begging-for-relief erections every Potions class at the mere sight of that idiot. Draco toyed with the idea of actually inciting Potter to render him impotent because these constant erections in Potter's presence were damn painful.

No, Potter refused to use it, even as Weasley and Granger were throwing numbers around like they were confetti. The one person who really mattered, the one person whose use of M.A.P. was damn well mandatory for it to _matter_ , refused to use it. Point blank refused and was even, well, hostile to the very idea. Something that was standard in Potter's general attitude toward him, so no surprises there, but still! 

Plus, Draco was convinced that Potter was deliberately winding him up every single Potions class vis a vis the sock thing. Not only was he mixing hues, but some mornings he'd appear with a blue sock on one foot and a black sock on the other. The other day he had a black sock on one foot and a _WHITE_ sock on the other. Not that Draco could even lambast Potter for these sartorial catastrophes since they weren't speaking to each other at this point, because Draco had quickly come to the conclusion that if Potter did actually hex his dick, the possibility of him fucking it up was enormous thereby rendering Draco impotent for life. So, no, they weren't talking, only communicating in grunts, elbows to the ribs, and a lot of animated wand waving. To date they had managed to avoid blowing up the Potions lab, but it was a near thing.

Draco stifled a yawn as he faced yet another Potions class. The mere thought of standing next to Potter for two hours had woken his dick up, but his dick hadn't had the courtesy to tell his brain. He was so fucking exhausted. Sleep, what was sleep? He hadn't slept a wink the night before, asking himself over and over again why had something that had seemingly gone so well had gone so wrong? When Potter stumbled into Potions, looking as bleary eyed as Draco felt, had it been anyone else, he might have felt a niggling of sympathy. As it was, he felt nothing but total and utter rage. Because to wear mismatched socks was bad enough. But this morning, that bastard, that dick-stripping, blind-as-a-bat-plonker wasn't wearing _any_ socks. Hints of BARE Potter ankles were winking in and out of Draco's sight as Potter shuffled over to his seat.

Oh. My. Fuck.

Now Draco had lots of kinks. He owned up to spanking, blindfolds, watersports, bondage, and the occasional cross-dressing. People have on many occasions suggested to him that the glass-smashing thing was not only kinky but a little whackadoodle. And the list thing was so anal that it bordered on kinky. He violently disagreed with both of those assessments. The glass thing was a rational reaction to life's curve balls, and how anyone functioned without a list was beyond him. And there wasn't anything weird about the chocolate thing. In fact, he thought it pretty kinky if you didn't have a chocolate fetish. Not normal in his opinion. So yes, kinks. He had them.

But is there anything more galling than discovering a kink you never knew you had, and to discover it in Potions--of all places--was just cruel beyond belief. Doubly cruel beyond belief was that it was Potter's ankles that were giving him the mother of all erections. What in the hell was the matter with the man? It might be May, but there was frost on the ground this morning--thank you, climatic hell-hole that is freezing Scotland.

Draco tried to visual Blaise's ankles. Nothing, not even a twinge of lust. Pansy? She had exceptionally gorgeous feet with absolutely delightful baby toes, but she registered nada on the kink scale. It was Potter related, Potter generated, and would Potter please go to hell right now? Could Draco hate him anymore more? He didn't think so. Draco didn't have blue balls. He had navy balls with sparkles on top. 

Draco had managed to maintain his normal level of sneer during Snape's general lecture. Not that he'd paid attention to a single word, because who could with the thought that very soon he would be standing a mere three inches away from those ankles. It was a struggle to walk to the laboratory tables without looking like a hunchback he was so hard.

Walking up to the lab table, fumbling with his parchment in one hand--on which he'd written nothing--and quill and wand in the other, and nearly stumbling--something that Draco hadn't done since he was nine months old--in anticipation of being right next to... Yes! No, that should be a no, except it was such a fucking hallelujah suck-my-dick-for-eternity "yes," because there was that particular vanilla-y aroma that was essence of Potter and mixed in with the chalky, sweet smell of toothpaste. Add bare Potter ankles to that and he was done.

Needs must.

He looked up. Everyone's attention was focused on Snape's daily harangue against Longbottom. Now that Draco knew that Longbottom had only one item on his daily list and that item was, "Biggest dick in England," he honestly didn't know why Longbottom was so intimidated by Snape. If he had a dick down to his knees, nothing that Snape could possibly say would have had any effect on him what so ever. There are some absolutes that trump everything else and having a dick as big as Portugal was one of them. Typical Gryffindor. They never seem to understand what was really important.

Draco had learned in his short life to never look a gift horse in the mouth. Seize the moment, so to speak. He hauled back and socked Potter in the stomach.

The "oomph" Potter let out was music to his ears. Snape stopped mid-snarl and the entire class turned toward them.

"Must be something he ate, sir." Potter managed to eke out some sort of garbled protest that fortunately didn't make any sense. "Shall I take him to Madame Pomfrey?"

"Mr. Malfoy," Snape began to speak in a skeptical tone that suggested that he wasn't fooled one bit, but the gods were smiling on Draco this morning. All of a sudden the liquid in Longbottom's cauldron began to screech and turned a shade of mustard that was always a bad sign.

"I'll take him right now," Draco yelled over Snape's roar of disgust as everyone hit the floor in anticipation of some gigantic explosion.

Hustling Potter out the door, which the bastard didn't make very easy because he was still hunched over in pain, perhaps he should have pulled that punch a little bit, Draco made a beeline for the wall tapestry a few corridors over.

"Malfoy. I'm. Going. To--" Potter panted out before Draco dragged him behind the wall hanging, threw him against the wall, and then plastered himself against Potter. 

"What in the fuck are you... Oh."

Potter was _so_ bloody thick. What in the hell did it look like he was doing? Draco didn't think there were any other ways to interpret a hand shoved down one's pants and grabbing whatever came to hand, so to speak. Dear Merlin, it felt so wonderful, so hot, so unspeakably Potteresque that Draco's knees went weak. Potter went from, wow, my stomach really hurts, to, wow, my dick is really hard in five seconds flat. There, yes, there, Draco had to, he had to just. Just. Taste. One little. A small one. Will probably. Not taste. Spectacular. 

There was vanilla and toothpaste and fucking hell. Potter tasted like chocolate. Not just any chocolate, but the finest Swiss chocolate ever created. A deep rich bittersweet flavor that wasn't cloying or too bitter, not a hint of raspberry cream _anywhere_. Potter's mouth was tart and lush and Draco never wanted to stop kissing him. Ever. It was like eating chocolate but chocolate with a lips and a dick. Not even Draco--whose imagination was acknowledged by all to be a little too frisky--could ever have dreamt up such perfection.

Had Potter ever kissed anyone? Based on the inept, what-in-the-hell-do-I-do-with-my-mouth-now moves, it seemed not. But thank the unicorn Merlin rode in on, Potter was a quick study. He went from inept to fantastic in short order. Sadly, it didn't matter because Potter could have had the kissing skills of a flobberworm and it would have felt fantastic. Plus he was moving into Draco's hand like he was dying for it, his hands digging into Draco's shoulder blades. Which was gratifying, because Draco was pretty much on the verge of death himself. Toeing off his trainer and then his sock, he waited. He waited until Potter's mouth went slack and there was that perfect second between when know you're going to come your effing brains out and you do. At that moment, he placed the arch of his foot against Potter's ankle. His foot was warm and Potter's ankle was cool and Draco surged forward, coming in his trousers, just as Potter surged toward him coming in Draco's hand. 

There are no words or numbers to describe the sheer bliss of that orgasm.

It was a miracle that they didn't collapse. As they stood there panting in the afterglow, somehow they kept each other standing, the physics of the two of them leaning against each other somehow keeping them upright. Potter's hand came up to pet his hair, even as Draco couldn't help but thumb that so-soft spot behind Potter's ear.

God, he was fucked. Potter tasted like chocolate. Not flobberworm jizz or elf piss or any of the things that one would assume the ultimate Gryffidor would taste like. Draco laid his mouth against Potter's neck and sucked. Yes, chocolate with hints of caramel. He lingered there for a second, nibbling on Potter's earlobe, dragging his flat of his tongue along the "L" of Potter's neckline for one last, final taste, and then he bent down, grabbed his shoe and sock, and ran.

_To Be Continued_


End file.
